excellent example which that good woman had set him, and was carrying
the war right into the enemy’s country; but he had gone farther in one
direction, and by the time the eventful evening arrived had prepared for
his guests a _coup d’état_ which was unanticipated even by his own wife.
He had been engaged in a secret correspondence, the result of which was
seen when, just after the assembling of the guests in the long, low room
which was parlour, sitting, and dining room in the Sneedon household, the
wily host ushered in and introduced to the astonished people the Reverend
Abram Martin. They were not allowed to recover from their surprise before
they were seated at the table, grace said by the reverend brother, and
the supper commenced. And such a supper as it was,—one that could not
but soften the feelings and touch the heart of any Negro. It was a
supper that disarmed opposition. Sister Hannah was seated at the left of
Reverend Abram Martin, who was a fluent and impressive talker; and what
with his affability and the delight of the repast, she grew mollified and
found herself laughing and chatting. The other members of her faction
looked on, and, seeing her pleased with the minister, grew pleased
themselves. The Reverend Abram Martin’s magnetic influence ran round the
board like an electric current.
He could tell a story with a dignified humour that was irresistible,—and
your real Negro is a lover of stories and a teller of them. Soon, next
to the ’possum, he was the centre of attraction around the table, and
he held forth while the diners listened respectfully to his profound
observations or laughed uproariously at his genial jokes. All the while
Brother Sneedon sat delightedly by, watchful, but silent, save for the
occasional injunction to his guests to help themselves. And they did so
with a gusto that argued well for their enjoyment of the food set before
them. As the name by which the supper was designated would imply, ’possum
was the principal feature, but, even after including the sweet potatoes
and brown gravy, that was not all. There was hog jole and cold cabbage,
ham and Kentucky oysters, more widely known as chittlings. What more
there was it boots not to tell. Suffice it to say that there was little
enough of anything left to do credit to the people’s dual powers of
listening and eating, for in all this time the Reverend Abram Martin had
not abated his conversational efforts nor they their unflagging attention.
Just before the supper was finished, the preacher was called upon, at the
instigation of Hezekiah Sneedon, of course, to make a few remarks, which
he proceeded to do in a very happy and taking vein. Then the affair broke
up, and the people went home with myriad comments on their tongues. But
one idea possessed the minds of all, and that was that the Reverend Abram
Martin was a very able man, and charming withal.
It was at this hour, when opportunity for sober reflection returned,
that Sister Williams first awakened to the fact that her own conduct
had compromised her cause. She did not sleep that night—she lay awake
and planned, and the result of her planning was a great fumbling the
next morning in the little bag where she kept her earnings, and the
despatching of her husband on an early and mysterious errand.
The day of meeting came, and the church presented a scene precisely
similar to that of the previous Sunday. If there was any difference, it
was only apparent in the entirely alert and cheerful attitude of Brother
Sneedon and the reversed expressions of the two factions. But even the
latter phase was not so marked, for the shrewd Sister Williams saw with
alarm that her forces were demoralised. Some of them were sitting near
the pulpit with expressions of pleasant anticipation on their faces, and
as she looked at them she groaned in spirit. But her lips were compressed
in a way that to a close observer would have seemed ominous, and ever
and anon she cast anxious and expectant glances toward the door. Her
husband sat upon her left, an abashed, shamefaced expression dominating
his features. He continually followed her glances toward the door with
a furtive, half-frightened look; and when Sneedon looked his way, he
avoided his eye.
That arch schemer was serene and unruffled. He had perpetrated a stroke
of excellent policy by denying himself the pleasure of introducing the
new minister, and had placed that matter in the hands of Isaac Jordan,
a member of the opposing faction and one of Sister Williams’ stanchest
supporters. Brother Jordan was pleased and flattered by the distinction,
and converted.
The service began. The hymn was sung, the prayer said, and the minister,
having been introduced, was already leading out from his text, when,
with a rattle and bang that instantly drew every eye rearward, the door
opened and a man entered. Apparently oblivious to the fact that he was
the centre of universal attention, he came slowly down the aisle and
took a seat far to the front of the church. A gleam of satisfaction shot
from the eye of Sister Williams, and with a sigh she settled herself in
her seat and turned her attention to the sermon. Brother Sneedon glanced
at the new-comer and grew visibly disturbed. One sister leaned over and
whispered to another,—
“I wunner whut Bud Lewis is a-doin’ hyeah?”
“I do’ know,” answered the other, “but I do hope an’ pray dat he won’t
git into none o’ his shoutin’ tantrums to-day.”
“Well, ef he do, I’s a-leavin’ hyeah, you hyeah me,” rejoined the first
speaker.
The sermon had progressed about one-third its length, and the
congregation had begun to show frequent signs of awakening life, when
on an instant, with startling suddenness, Bud Lewis sprang from his
seat and started on a promenade down the aisle, swinging his arms in
sweeping semi-circles, and uttering a sound like the incipient bellow of
a steamboat. “Whough! Whough!” he puffed, swinging from side to side down
the narrow passageway.
At the first demonstration from the new-comer, people began falling to
right and left out of his way. The fame of Bud Lewis’ “shoutin’ tantrums”
was widespread, and they who knew feared them. This unregenerate mulatto
was without doubt the fighting man of Bull-Skin.
While, as a general thing, he shunned the church, there were times when
a perverse spirit took hold of him, and he would seek the meeting-house,
and promptly, noisily, and violently “get religion.” At these times he
made it a point to knock people helter-skelter, trample on tender toes,
and do other mischief, until in many cases the meeting broke up in
confusion. The saying finally grew to be proverbial among the people in
the Bull-Skin district that they would rather see a thunderstorm than Bud
Lewis get religion.
On this occasion he made straight for the space in front of the pulpit,
where his vociferous hallelujahs entirely drowned the minister’s voice;
while the thud, thud, thud of his feet upon the floor, as he jumped
up and down, effectually filled up any gap of stillness which his
hallelujahs might have left.
Hezekiah Sneedon knew that the Reverend Mr. Martin’s sermon would be
ruined, and he saw all his cherished hopes destroyed in a moment. He
was a man of action, and one glance at Sister Williams’ complacent
countenance decided him. He rose, touched Isaac Jordan, and said, “Come
on, let’s hold him.” Jordan hesitated a minute; but his leader was going
on, and there was nothing to do but to follow him. They approached Lewis,
and each seized an arm. The man began to struggle. Several other men
joined them and laid hold on him.
“Quiet, brother, quiet,” said Hezekiah Sneedon; “dis is de house o’ de
Lawd.”
“You lemme go,” shrieked Bud Lewis. “Lemme go, I say.”
“But you mus’ be quiet, so de res’ o’ de congregation kin hyeah.”
“I don’t keer whethah dey hyeahs er not. I reckon I kin shout ef I want
to.” The minister had paused in his sermon, and the congregation was
alert.
“Brother, you mus’ not distu’b de meetin’. Praise de Lawd all you want
to, but give somebidy else a chance too.”
“I won’t, I won’t; lemme go. I’s paid fu’ shoutin’, an’ I’s gwine to
shout.” Hezekiah Sneedon caught the words, and he followed up his
advantage.
“You’s paid fu’ shoutin’! Who paid you?”
“Hannah Williams, dat’s who! Now you lemme go; I’s gwine to shout.”
The effect of this declaration was magical. The brothers, by their
combined efforts, lifted the struggling mulatto from his feet and carried
him out of the chapel, while Sister Williams’ face grew ashen in hue.
The congregation settled down, and the sermon was resumed. Disturbance
and opposition only seemed to have heightened the minister’s power, and
he preached a sermon that is remembered to this day on Bull-Skin. Before
it was over, Bud Lewis’ guards filed back into church and listened with
enjoyment to the remainder of the discourse.
The service closed, and under cover of the crowd that thronged about the
altar to shake the minister’s hand Hannah Williams escaped.
* * * * *
As the first item of business at the church meeting on the following
Wednesday evening, she was formally “churched” and expelled from
fellowship with the flock at Bull-Skin for planning to interrupt divine
service. The next business was the unanimous choice of Reverend Abram
Martin for the pastorate of the church.
JIMSELLA
JIMSELLA
No one could ever have accused Mandy Mason of being thrifty. For the
first twenty years of her life conditions had not taught her the
necessity for thrift. But that was before she had come North with Jim.
Down there at home one either rented or owned a plot of ground with a
shanty set in the middle of it, and lived off the products of one’s
own garden and coop. But here it was all very different: one room in a
crowded tenement house, and the necessity of grinding day after day to
keep the wolf—a very terrible and ravenous wolf—from the door. No wonder
that Mandy was discouraged and finally gave up to more than her old
shiftless ways.
Jim was no less disheartened. He had been so hopeful when he first came,
and had really worked hard. But he could not go higher than his one
stuffy room, and the food was not so good as it had been at home. In this
state of mind, Mandy’s shiftlessness irritated him. He grew to look on
her as the source of all his disappointments. Then, as he walked Sixth or
Seventh Avenue, he saw other coloured women who dressed gayer than Mandy,
looked smarter, and did not wear such great shoes. These he contrasted
with his wife, to her great disadvantage.
“Mandy,” he said to her one day, “why don’t you fix yo’se’f up an’ look
like people? You go ’roun’ hyeah lookin’ like I dunno what.”
“Whyn’t you git me somep’n’ to fix myse’f up in?” came back the
disconcerting answer.
“Ef you had any git up erbout you, you’d git somep’n’ fu’ yo’se’f an’ not
wait on me to do evahthing.”
“Well, ef I waits on you, you keeps me waitin’, fu’ I ain’ had nothin’
fit to eat ner waih since I been up hyeah.”
“Nev’ min’! You’s mighty free wid yo’ talk now, but some o’ dese days you
won’t be so free. You’s gwine to wake up some mo’nin’ an’ fin’ dat I’s
lit out; dat’s what you will.”
“Well, I ’low nobody ain’t got no string to you.”
[Illustration: “WHYN’T YOU GIT ME SOMEP’N’ TO FIX MYSELF UP IN?”]
Mandy took Jim’s threat as an idle one, so she could afford to be
independent. But the next day had found him gone. The deserted wife wept
for a time, for she had been fond of Jim, and then she set to work to
struggle on by herself. It was a dismal effort, and the people about
her were not kind to her. She was hardly of their class. She was only a
simple, honest countrywoman, who did not go out with them to walk the
avenue.
When a month or two afterward the sheepish Jim returned, ragged and
dirty, she had forgiven him and taken him back. But immunity from
punishment spoiled him, and hence of late his lapses had grown more
frequent and of longer duration.
He walked in one morning, after one of his absences, with a more than
usually forbidding face, for he had heard the news in the neighbourhood
before he got in. During his absence a baby had come to share the poverty
of his home. He thought with shame at himself, which turned into anger,
that the child must be three months old and he had never seen it.
“Back ag’in, Jim?” was all Mandy said as he entered and seated himself
sullenly.
“Yes, I’s back, but I ain’t back fu’ long. I jes’ come to git my
clothes. I’s a-gwine away fu’ good.”
“Gwine away ag’in! Why, you been gone fu’ nigh on to fou’ months a’ready.
Ain’t you nevah gwine to stay home no mo’?”
“I tol’ you I was gwine away fu’ good, didn’t I? Well, dat’s what I mean.”
“Ef you didn’t want me, Jim, I wish to Gawd dat you’d ’a’ lef’ me back
home among my folks, whaih people knowed me an’ would ’a’ give me a
helpin’ han’. Dis hyeah No’f ain’t no fittin’ place fu’ a lone colo’ed
ooman less’n she got money.”
“It ain’t no place fu’ nobody dat’s jes’ lazy an’ no ’count.”
“I ain’t no ’count. I ain’t wuffless. I does de bes’ I kin. I been
wo’kin’ like a dog to try an’ keep up while you trapsein’ ’roun’, de Lawd
knows whaih. When I was single I could git out an’ mek my own livin’. I
didn’t ax nobody no odds; but you wa’n’t satisfied ontwell I ma’ied you,
an’ now, when I’s tied down wid a baby, dat’s de way you treats me.”
The woman sat down and began to cry, and the sight of her tears angered
her husband the more.
“Oh, cry!” he exclaimed. “Cry all you want to. I reckon you’ll cry yo’
fill befo’ you gits me back. What do I keer about de baby! Dat’s jes’ de
trouble. It wa’n’t enough fu’ me to have to feed an’ clothe you a-layin’
’roun’ doin’ nothin’, a baby had to go an’ come too.”
“It’s yo’n, an’ you got a right to tek keer of it, dat’s what you have. I
ain’t a-gwine to waih my soul-case out a-tryin’ to pinch along an’ sta’ve
to def at las’. I’ll kill myse’f an’ de chile, too, fus.”
The man looked up quickly. “Kill yo’se’f,” he said. Then he laughed. “Who
evah hyeahed tell of a niggah killin’ hisse’f?”
“Nev’ min’, nev’ min’, you jes’ go on yo’ way rejoicin’. I ’spect you
runnin’ ’roun’ aftah somebody else—dat’s de reason you cain’t nevah stay
at home no mo’.”
“Who tol’ you dat?” exclaimed the man, fiercely. “I ain’t runnin’ aftah
nobody else—’tain’t none o’ yo’ business ef I is.”
The denial and implied confession all came out in one breath.
“Ef hit ain’t my bus’ness, I’d like to know whose it gwine to be. I’s yo’
lawful wife an’ hit’s me dat’s a-sta’vin’ to tek keer of yo’ chile.”
“Doggone de chile; I’s tiahed o’ hyeahin’ ’bout huh.”
“You done got tiahed mighty quick when you ain’t nevah even seed huh yit.
You done got tiahed quick, sho.”
“No, an’ I do’ want to see huh, neithah.”
“You do’ know nothin’ ’bout de chile, you do’ know whethah you wants to
see huh er not.”
“Look hyeah, ooman, don’t you fool wid me. I ain’t right, nohow!”
Just then, as if conscious of the hubbub she had raised, and anxious to
add to it, the baby awoke and began to wail. With quick mother instinct,
the black woman went to the shabby bed, and, taking the child in her
arms, began to croon softly to it: “Go s’eepy, baby; don’ you be ’f’aid;
mammy ain’ gwine let nuffin’ hu’t you, even ef pappy don’ wan’ look at
huh li’l face. Bye, bye, go s’eepy, mammy’s li’l gal.” Unconsciously she
talked to the baby in a dialect that was even softer than usual. For a
moment the child subsided, and the woman turned angrily on her husband:
“I don’ keer whethah you evah sees dis chile er not. She’s a blessed
li’l angel, dat’s what she is, an’ I’ll wo’k my fingahs off to raise huh,
an’ when she grows up, ef any nasty niggah comes erroun’ mekin’ eyes
at huh, I’ll tell huh ’bout huh pappy an’ she’ll stay wid me an’ be my
comfo’t.”
“Keep yo’ comfo’t. Gawd knows I do’ want huh.”
“De time’ll come, though, an’ I kin wait fu’ it. Hush-a-bye, Jimsella.”
The man turned his head slightly.
“What you call huh?”
“I calls huh Jimsella, dat’s what I calls huh, ’ca’se she de ve’y
spittin’ image of you. I gwine to jes’ lun to huh dat she had a pappy, so
she know she’s a hones’ chile an’ kin hol’ up huh haid.”
“Oomph!”
They were both silent for a while, and then Jim said, “Huh name ought to
be Jamsella—don’t you know Jim’s sho’t fu’ James?”
“I don’t keer what it’s sho’t fu’.” The woman was holding the baby close
to her breast and sobbing now. “It wasn’t no James dat come a-cou’tin’
me down home. It was jes’ plain Jim. Dat’s what de mattah, I reckon you
done got to be James.” Jim didn’t answer, and there was another space of
silence, only interrupted by two or three contented gurgles from the baby.
“I bet two bits she don’t look like me,” he said finally, in a dogged
tone that was a little tinged with curiosity.
“I know she do. Look at huh yo’se’f.”
“I ain’ gwine look at huh.”
“Yes, you’s ’fraid—dat’s de reason.”
“I ain’ ’fraid nuttin’ de kin’. What I got to be ’fraid fu’? I reckon a
man kin look at his own darter. I will look jes’ to spite you.”
He couldn’t see much but a bundle of rags, from which sparkled a pair of
beady black eyes. But he put his finger down among the rags. The baby
seized it and gurgled. The sweat broke out on Jim’s brow.
“Cain’t you let me hold de baby a minute?” he said angrily. “You must be
’fraid I’ll run off wid huh.” He took the child awkwardly in his arms.
The boiling over of Mandy’s clothes took her to the other part of the
room, where she was busy for a few minutes. When she turned to look for
Jim, he had slipped out, and Jimsella was lying on the bed trying to
kick free of the coils which swaddled her.
At supper-time that evening Jim came in with a piece of “shoulder-meat”
and a head of cabbage.
“You’ll have to git my dinnah ready fu’ me to ca’y to-morrer. I’s wo’kin’
on de street, an’ I cain’t come home twell night.”
“Wha’, what!” exclaimed Mandy, “den you ain’ gwine leave, aftah all.”
“Don’t bothah me, ooman,” said Jim. “Is Jimsella ’sleep?”
MT. PISGAH’S CHRISTMAS ’POSSUM
MT. PISGAH’S CHRISTMAS ’POSSUM
No more happy expedient for raising the revenues of the church could
have been found than that which was evolved by the fecund brain of the
Reverend Isaiah Johnson. Mr. Johnson was wise in his day and generation.
He knew his people, their thoughts and their appetites, their loves
and their prejudices. Also he knew the way to their hearts and their
pocket-books.
As far ahead as the Sunday two weeks before Christmas, he had made the
announcement that had put the congregation of Mt. Pisgah church into a
flurry of anticipatory excitement.
“Brothahs an’ sistahs,” he had said, “you all reckernizes, ez well ez
I does, dat de revenues of dis hyeah chu’ch ain’t whut dey ought to
be. De chu’ch, I is so’y to say, is in debt. We has a mo’gage on ouah
buildin’, an’ besides de int’rus’ on dat, we has fuel to buy an’ lightin’
to do. Fu’thahmo’, we ain’t paid de sexton but twenty-five cents on his
salary in de las’ six months. In conserquence of de same, de dus’ is
so thick on de benches dat ef you’d jes’ lay a clof ovah dem, dey’d be
same ez upholstahed fu’niture. Now, in o’dah to mitigate dis condition
of affairs, yo’ pastoh has fo’med a plan which he wishes to p’nounce
dis mo’nin’ in yo’ hyeahin’ an’ to ax yo’ ’proval. You all knows dat
Chris’mus is ’proachin’, an’ I reckon dat you is all plannin’ out yo’
Chris’mus dinnahs. But I been a-plannin’ fu’ you when you was asleep, an’
my idee is dis,—all of you give up yo’ Chris’mus dinnahs, tek fifteen
cents er a qua’tah apiece an’ come hyeah to chu’ch an’ have a ’possum
dinnah.”
“Amen!” shouted one delighted old man over in the corner, and the whole
congregation was all smiles and acquiescent nods.
“I puceive on de pa’t of de cong’egation a disposition to approve of de
pastoh’s plan.”
“Yes, yes, indeed,” was echoed on all sides.
“Well, den I will jes’ tek occasion to say fu’thah dat I already has de
’possums, fo’ of de fattes’ animals I reckon you evah seen in all yo’
bo’n days, an’ I’s gwine to tu’n ’em ovah to Brothah Jabez Holly to tek
keer of dem an’ fatten ’em wuss ag’in de happy day.”
The eyes of Jabez Holly shone with pride at the importance of the
commission assigned to him. He showed his teeth in a broad smile as
he whispered to his neighbour, ’Lishy Davis, “I ’low when I gits thoo
wif dem ’possums dey won’t be able to waddle;” and ’Lishy slapped his
knee and bent double with appreciation. It was a happy and excited
congregation that filed out of Mt. Pisgah church that Sunday morning,
and how they chattered! Little knots and clusters of them, with their
heads together in deep converse, were gathered all about, and all the
talk was of the coming dinner. This, as has already been said, was the
Sunday two weeks before Christmas. On the Sunday following, the shrewd,
not to say wily, Mr. Johnson delivered a stirring sermon from the text,
“He prepareth a table before me in the presence of mine enemies,” and not
one of his hearers but pictured the Psalmist and his brethren sitting
at a ’possum feast with the congregation of a rival church looking
enviously on. After the service that day, even the minister sank into
insignificance beside his steward, Jabez Holly, the custodian of the
’possums. He was the most sought man on the ground.
“How dem ’possums comin’ on?” asked one.
“Comin’ on!” replied Jabez. “‘Comin’ on’ ain’t no name fu’ it. Why, I
tell you, dem animals is jes’ a-waddlin’ a’ready.”
“O-o-mm!” groaned a hearer, “Chris’mus do seem slow a-comin’ dis yeah.”
“Why, man,” Jabez went on, “it ’u’d mek you downright hongry to see
one o’ dem critters. Evah time I looks at ’em I kin jes’ see de grease
a-drippin’ in de pan, an’ dat skin all brown an’ crispy, an’ de smell
a-risin’ up—”
“Heish up, man!” exclaimed the other; “ef you don’t, I’ll drap daid befo’
de time comes.”
“Huh-uh! no, you won’t; you know dat day’s wuf livin’ fu’. Brothah
Jackson, how’d yo’ crap o’ sweet pertaters tu’n out dis yeah?”
“Fine, fine! I’s got dem mos’ plenteous in my cellah.”
“Well, don’t eat em too fas’ in de nex’ week, ’ca’se we ’spects to call
on you fu’ some o’ yo’ bes’. You know dem big sweet pertaters cut right
in two and laid all erroun’ de pan teks up lots of de riches’ grease when
ol’ Mistah ’Possum git too wa’m in de oven an’ git to sweatin’ it out.”
“Have mercy!” exclaimed the impressionable one. “I know ef I don’t git
erway f’om dis chu’ch do’ right now, I’ll be foun’ hyeah on Chris’mus day
wif my mouf wide open.”
But he did not stay there until Christmas morning, though he arrived
on that momentous day bright and early like most of the rest. Half the
women of the church had volunteered to help cook the feast, and the other
half were there to see it done right; so by the time for operations to
commence, nearly all of Mt. Pisgah’s congregation was assembled within
its chapel walls. And what laughing and joking there was!
“O-omph!” exclaimed Sister Green, “I see Brothah Bill Jones’ mouf is jes’
sot fu’ ’possum now.”
“Yes, indeed, Sis’ Green; hit jes’ de same ’s a trap an’ gwine to spring
ez soon ez dey any ’possum in sight.”
“Hyah, hyah, you ain’t de on’iest one in dat fix, Brothah Jones; I see
some mo’ people roun’ hyeah lookin’ mighty ’spectious.”
“Yes, an’ I’s one of ’em,” said some one else. “I do wish Jabez Holly ’ud
come on, my mouf’s jest p’intly worterin’.”
“Let’s sen’ a c’mittee aftah him, dat’ll be a joke.” This idea was taken
up, and with much merriment the committee was despatched to find and
bring in the delinquent Jabez.
Every one who has ever cooked a ’possum—and who has not?—knows that the
animal must be killed the day before and hung out of doors over night to
freeze “de wil’ tas’e outen him.” This duty had been intrusted to Jabez,
and shouts of joy went up from the assembled people when he appeared,
followed by the committee and bearing a bag on his shoulder. He set the
bag on the floor, and as the crowd closed round him, he put his arm far
down into it, and drew forth by the tail a beautiful white fat cleaned
’possum.
“O-om, jes’ look at dat! Ain’t dat a possum fu’ you? Go on, Brothah
Jabez, let’s see anothah.” Jabez hesitated.
“Dat’s one ’possum dah, ain’t it?” he said.
“Yes, yes, go on, let’s see de res’.” Those on the inside of the circle
were looking hard at Jabez.
“Now, dat’s one ’possum,” he repeated.
“Yes, yes, co’se it is.” There was breathless expectancy.
“Well, dat’s all dey is.”
[Illustration: “I SEE ’POSSUM GREASE ON YO’ MOUF.”]
The statement fell like a thunder-clap. No one found voice till the
Reverend Isaiah Johnson broke in with, “Wha’, what dat you say, Jabez
Holly?”
“I say dat’s all de ’possum dey is, dat’s what I say.”
“Whah’s dem othah ’possums, huh! whah’s de res’?”
“I put ’em out to freeze las’ night, an’ de dogs got ’em.”
A groan went up from the disappointed souls of Mt. Pisgah. But the
minister went on: “Whah’d you hang dem?”